


Devoid of Beauty

by FarenMaddox



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Blind Character, Fluff, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4291269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FarenMaddox/pseuds/FarenMaddox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurogane has to decide if he wants to be a part of this family.  He's not good at allowing himself to be vulnerable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devoid of Beauty

**Author's Note:**

> Posted this on DreamWidth quite a while back and found it today and remembered I never added it here. Enjoy!

There was one thing in particular that Kurogane missed.

It was the one thing he'd never say. He'd complain to his unlikely traveling companions until they could barely stand to be around him about the food, the hygiene, Mokona's unceremonial method of dumping them on their asses— he'd complain until they went away. That was the real goal. He needed the peace and quiet sometimes.

He could use their auras to know where they were and he could hear every tiny rustle of their clothing. He'd trained himself. He was a bodyguard, an elite, the senses that he did have were honed to an edge as keen as that of his sword. That was why it was so exhausting. Constantly compensating for not seeing them, working himself to the edge of his sanity to keep up with it all, and then when he got tired he'd snipe about how much they all stank until they left him alone.

He never talked about what it was he missed the most. That was—that was an unforgivable weakness on his part. Any weakness was unforgivable in a man of his position, but this one in particular he clamped under his tongue and hid behind the mask of emotionless calm he had never tried to master until now.

He missed the stories.

His companions, raucous with sake and swapping tales of bravery and beauty. It was the closest he came to seeing. A beam of the house burning down around him fell on his head and took the sight from his eyes and now he only saw the flowering of spring when the better samurai told it in poetry.

Tomoyo might have noticed without him saying a word. She'd sent him away. The other ninja would have sympathized with his plight in this awful country devoid of beauty. There weren't any here. He would have explained it as a need for a Japanese man's soul to hear great tales. He wouldn't have said any of that about getting back his sight in stories. He wasn't allowed weakness. Less so now in these foreign places with these foreign people.

 

* * *

 

He knew of writing, he knew what it was. He'd started to learn a bit, as a child. But he didn't understand the sound he heard when Syaoran told him that he was reading. A quiet night after a quiet day that the young foreign princess had slept through. The psychotic wizard had gone to bed early. Syaoran sat up late and Kurogane sat with him, sleepless and drinking some kind of local liquor in place of rest. He presumed there was a light for Syaoran to read by but he didn't concentrate enough to seek for the tiny spark of warmth and locate it in the room.

A tiny whipping, flicking sound. How could that be reading?

“So what are you reading?” Kurogane broke the silence, bored and unhappy.

Syaoran didn't answer for a moment. He might have been marking his place. He might have been staring at Kurogane in utter shock for asking such an obvious question. Kurogane had no way of knowing that. He knew people by their tone of voice, not the expression on their face. He'd been better at that even when he had his sight.

Syaoran didn't know that Kurogane was blind.

None of them did. He got along well enough through auras, through sounds and smells, through his years of careful training. He hadn't felt a need to mention it to them, and none of them seemed to have any kind of skills at observation to notice it for themselves.

“It's a story,” Syaoran said after a moment. “It's, um. An adventure story. About a man who reminds me a little of my father. He digs up old ruins and fights with grave robbers and criminals . . .”

Kurogane must have made a face of too much interest, too much eagerness. Syaoran had noticed it.

“Would you like to read it when I'm finished?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he didn't care for childish stories, but he was too greedy for any little scraps of it that Syaoran might give him. Syaoran would probably not agree to tell stories about his own father, despite Kurogane's interest being piqued by the man. He heard Syaoran's grief in his voice and knew his father was not a man he would share with a stranger. But there was a story in front of him that he was willing to share. A starving man didn't have to beg, but he could say the word “please,” anyway.

“I can't read,” he said brusquely. That much was true.

Syaoran didn't act particularly surprised. The boy had that ability. To just take the truth as it was, quietly. He could probably teach Kurogane a thing or two about becoming less judgmental, despite the several years that Kurogane had on him. He hadn't exactly prioritized the social graces during his teenaged years.

Still, he seemed to be hesitating for a moment before he spoke, and that was how Kurogane knew that the question he asked wasn't the one he really wanted to. “In that case, perhaps you'd like me to read it to you?”

Kurogane wanted to say no. He didn't need any favors from anyone, especially not this kid. But he didn't say it. Couldn't say it. He was too bored and tired and maybe just a little drunk. Maybe just drunk enough.

“Do whatever makes you happy,” he muttered, and drained the last of the bottle he was on. He'd brought several. There was still one left.

So Syaoran made that strange flicking, whishing sound, and began to read. It sounded like he'd started over, for Kurogane's sake. Bullshit. But whatever.

It was a nice night. Kurogane was a little drunk and a little frustrated as Syaoran read aloud. He wondered if there was a cozy glow in the room. He wondered what color his liquor was. He wondered what Syaoran's face looked like. But it was a good story, anyway. He could imagine the tombs.

 

* * *

 

They all got closer. The princess got a little better each time. They looked out for each other. Kurogane kept his secrets to himself. His weaknesses. He didn't trust them yet.

 

* * *

 

There are three quiet nights just like the first, but no one in the same dimension as any other. It's hard to tell how long it takes. The passage of time has become muddled as they cross dimensions and strangely it is only the mage who can really keep track of the days, the mage who could actually tell him if he asked that it takes nearly two months for Syaoran to finish the story of the adventurer.

They have adventures of their own in the meantime. There are battles and races and friends and enemies. But the mage is the real reason that it takes so long to finish the book. He's become . . . both less and more annoying as they journey on together. Kurogane learned quickly to value his opinions and his battle skills. It becomes a rare occasion that the pale, thin aura does not radiate at his side from the moment they arise until the moment they lay down to sleep.

The mage has discovered the truth. Kurogane probably should have guessed that it wouldn't take him long. He has not said a word, but he has quietly shifted where he stands when they go into a fight together. And then. That day that the mage stopped him from going out of the room they were sharing, saying in his false voice, “Your hair is getting quite shaggy, Kuro-beastie! I'm afraid I'll have to trim it for you and keep you civilized so you don't scare the locals!”

He'd known it was getting too long, but wasn't about to try cutting it himself. There had always been a servant to help him with that. The servant was also supposed to mend his clothes, but he'd figured out how to do that for himself. Still, he now let the somewhat suspect mage put scissors near his face without a single qualm.

That was the moment he realized that Fai knew the truth.

It got a bit easier, after that. The mage was always nearby to make incredibly simple-minded observations, cheerily making himself look like a fool so that Kurogane would know the things he might have otherwise missed—the thickness of the rug on the floor, a host's quiet smile, the shape of the clouds in the sky that might signal bad weather. He saved Kurogane from spilling piping hot food onto his hand when he misjudged the rim of the hotpot. He'd jokingly served out everyone's portions to cover it up, pretending at silliness for Kurogane's sake.

It irritated him. But. Would he rather be a swordsman with a hand too burned to use for days?

Yes, it was obvious that the mage knew. And Kurogane had not yet figured out how to make sure the man understood that Kurogane didn't _need him_ , barring an all-out brawl. Which he wasn't ruling out.

Easier, certainly. But Kurogane still needed those nights with Syaoran and the adventure story, and somehow that was the one thing he could not allow the mage to know. Fai could learn about how the slightest disturbance to his morning routine of bathing and dressing could be catastrophic—or at least, catostrophically embarrassing. The mage could learn about how troublesome it was when furniture was moved out of place. And fucking _spoons_ being the bane of his existence.

But no one could know how much Kurogane needed the quiet of those nights with the boy. Shutting down his over-alertness. Just listening. He needed those descriptions of barren desert and lush jungle and dank crypts. Syaoran thought it nothing but a passing amusement, something to pass the time when they couldn't sleep. If Fai knew, he would _know_ somehow that it was more than that. Far from home, afraid of screwing up, of letting someone down, and seeking the only comfort and rest he could find amidst all this chaos.

A passing amusement was forgivable. Weakness was not.

So he found it difficult to get away, to make those nights happen. He could not simply request while in company that Syaoran stay up and read to him. He never would, even if it _was_ only entertainment. At least the boy had the savvy to notice Kurogane not bringing it up, and do the same.

It was always so hard to sleep. The other two couldn't fail to notice how he often crouched in the corners of unfamiliar rooms, unable and unwilling to let go and shut his senses down. Even after the mage began his campaign of quiet assistance, it was still difficult. Maybe that was why the mage was always wheedling him into sitting together and drinking and talking after the others had gone to bed. Maybe he thought it was helping.

Eventually, they made it happen. Some nights, rare and sudden, the mage would fall asleep first. Kurogane would feel Syaoran's troubled gaze on him, picking him apart, both of them silent and awake. Kurogane would get up and leave the room without a word, and a few minutes later the boy would find him. And they'd read.

Quiet, warm nights. Bottles slowly emptying and Syaoran's voice going hoarse, the air speaking to Kurogane with temperature and humidity and animals calling to tell him the hours as they approached dawn. He would relax. He would forget threats and duties and missions and fears. He would slump comfortably with liquor warm in his gut and catch fleeting memories of the colour green while Syaoran read to him of the escape into the jungle. He could almost, almost remember the sparkle of sunlight on water when the adventurer tumbled down a jungle cliff and into a river.

It was a great story. It had crypt-robbing bandits and the adventurer's commitment to get the artifact safely into the hands of the museum curator who employed him.

And then it ended.

 

* * *

 

Kurogane waited about two weeks before he slipped out of their latest shared sleeping quarters. That Syaoran would follow him was unquestioned. That he would simply start reading a new story was highly unlikely. He was on the verge of discovering the truth, Kurogane thought. He'd become very watchful. That damn Mokona had doubtless known from the beginning and it hadn't taken the mage long to guess. The princess could be forgiven her lack of insight, considering how much time she still spent unconscious or dazed.

Laying an internal map of a space was something he did with little effort, these days. He found something to drink and turned on a lamp and settled himself comfortably, all silent and easy, before Syaoran joined him.

“I've got a book about something called a _ronin_ ,” Syaoran said cautiously.

Kurogane jeered at him, unable to help himself. He wasn't interested in coddling the kid, and he never had developed any good manners. “That's how you want this to go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don't you ask me whatever it was you wanted to ask me that first night. Go on.”

Syaoran's form was hunched, his shoulders drawn in a careful curve. Some of the warmth of his aura muted with hesitance. “Okay. Kurogane-san, would you like me to teach you how to read?”

“Heh,” he chuckled. That wasn't actually what he'd expected, but it was as good a way to go about this as any. “I told you already that I can't—weren't you listening?”

He was a damn smart kid. He knew what that meant. He'd fucking seen Kurogane nearly burn his hand and nobody was fooled by the mage's antics. “Kurogane-san,” he said, like he was protesting it. “You're the best swordsman I've ever seen. You—you fixed Chun-yan's roof.”

“Nearly broke two of my fingers, too,” he snorted. It was so much easier to work with auras than his own two hands, sometimes. He'd scored a direct hit on the stupid mage that day.

“You're never—you've never even—”

Kurogane found himself angry at that. It was too much like the taunting from other ninjas when he was Syaoran's age. He got up and got in the kid's face. “No, I never. And I won't. I'm blind, not fucking helpless.”

“I didn't even _know_ ,” Syaoran blurted out, his voice and aura both pitching up. “You're really amazing, Kurogane-san!”

“Don't. Don't. You. Dare.”

He bared his teeth, and Syaoran shut up. He retreated. He'd think it over for himself and leave Kurogane alone about it, hopefully. He wasn't a bad kid. He didn't even ask any questions about what they were doing here, reading adventure stories in the middle of the night. He just shifted in his chair and made that weird flicking sound, obviously waiting for Kurogane to sit down. Kurogane didn't.

“Hey. I wanna—yeah.” Unable to say it, he just took the object from Syaoran's hands. “Huhhhh,” he muttered with surprise, feeling it out. It wasn't a scroll at all. It was a bunch of little bits of paper all stuck together. They'd cobbled this thing out of scraps or something. “That's what makes that whishing noise, you moving the papers around. I wondered.”

Syaoran didn't say anything for a long time, and Kurogane began to suspect him of getting stupid ideas about feeling bad or some shit that Kurogane would have to beat out of him.

“I can still teach you to read, if you want.”

That actually took the filling out of his pork bun and deflated him. “. . . the hell, kid?”

“There's a special sort of writing, they developed it on one of the places I went to with my dad. It was for blind people. It's raised symbols on paper. You can run your fingers over them, feel the symbols, and—”

Kurogane wanted it too much, too quickly. “I get it,” he cut the kid off, spitting it out past the lump of pride trying to cut him off. “Don't get ahead of yourself, eh? I don't even fucking like you that much.”

Syaoran didn't seem to know if he was serious. That was fair. Neither did he.

It. Was. Weakness.

“It might come in handy, you know,” Syaoran said. “If you and I could get messages to each other that nobody else could read.”

That was . . . true. Any tactical advantage had to be considered a good thing.

“Maybe we can just try it out. I might not even remember it right. I might be a bad teacher.”

Taking favours from this kid, from the mage. Where did it end? How close was he planning to get to these people? Wasn't he just trying to go back home?

“In exchange, you're going to teach me the technique you use to keep track of your opponents in battle.”

Kurogane had to fight a grin when he heard the firmness in Syaoran's voice. It was kind of adorable. “Am I, now?”

“I'm, um, I'm blind in one of my eyes,” he confessed. Kurogane hadn't picked up on that, and was surprised. “I'm not fast enough on that side, not good enough at sensing attacks. I need to be better. I have to be. And if you teach me, then I'll teach you in exchange.”

One of these things was actually useful and one of them wasn't. He was being unforgivably weak right now. He—

Screw everything. Fuck it all. He was here and the kid was here, the mage, the princess, the damn rabbit, and none of them was going to part anytime soon. It was about damn time he started treating them like comrades. It was about damn time he let himself be part of the team.

He bowed to Syaoran, low and formal.

“I accept.”

The kid was practically vibrating with the urge to shake hands, to hug, to say something sappy. Kurogane had a really good glare for a blind man, though. The kid stayed put and bowed back. Learning to read was one thing, but better not let him get any ideas about friendship.

 


End file.
